Almost three decades since he first strapped in atop Sugarbush, VT, Jesse Huffman returns to examine his lifelong relationship with the place formerly known as Mascara Mountain. There, he finds a new groove in his old stomping ground.

Try to capture the essence of a place you’ve returned to nearly every winter since fourth grade. It’s pretty slippery, and, in the end, totally personal. I thought I knew, after I left my native Vermont to live in the Northwest and travel as a pro. I’d fly back east every Christmas, happy to hot lap the old hit run and hopefully float through some cold pow. And I certainly thought I’d already uncovered every nook and cranny of my home resort after I moved back to Vermont – completing a 14-year boomerang, from Brithish Columbia to Portland, OR and most recently New York City.

The trails, the little curb cuts and the tight, puckery tree shots – all the same as my middle-school and high school heydays, it seemed. But change is the only currency you can truly count on. A new crew of riders with new stashes; my stepson, learning to ride himself. What sounded like a broken record, skipping over the familiar scrape of steel edges on ice, bounced into a new groove, and a new song, at a very familiar place: Sugarbush…

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